


The way to fix it

by Vilian



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Disturbing But Love It Anyway, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Fix-Its, Fix-It of Sorts, Hoth, My First Fanfic, Not A Fix-It, POV Multiple, Post-Battle of Scarif, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilian/pseuds/Vilian
Summary: Things going bad. Or maybe the way they should be?(Warning: please read the tags carefully!)Edited on June 13th for grammar errors.





	1. Jyn

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER ADDED ON LATER DATE: CONTRARY TO APPARENTLY POPULAR BELIEF, THIS IS NOT A SUICIDAL NOTE. THANK YOU FOR THE CONCERN *HUGS*, BUT THIS IS JUST ME VENTING OUT. On that night kinda felt disappointed with everything, including dense doctors and their meds that don't fix anything, near & dear ones who don't fix anything, and even fix-it fics to my beloved story, that don't really fix the movie anyway. I decided to fix something I had power over to do so, and so fixed the fics, in most vile way I could think of. Apparently it turned out too disturbing, for which I'm genuinely sorry - still, it's just a work of fiction. I promise I'm not going to do so with anything or anyone else, including me or any other living creatures.  
>   
> Original notes:  
> I'm really down. I don't like like the direction my life took. I have no idea how to fix it, or maybe I'm too weak to do so. But I'm strong enough to keep sharp things away from myself, so the only who's got hurt are my beloved SW characters. I'm sorry, kind of, at least for grammar and spelling errors, English is not my native language. The style is probably a little off as well, not writing in last 20 years or so turns writing down coherent thoughts into babbling. Or maybe it's just because it's 5 AM.  
> 

 

Jyn grew so very tired. Tired of the vile looks, the evil whispers, everything that was going on right behind her back or sometimes straight in her face. Tired of constant battle in her mind, whether to stay or to flee. The cold of Echo Base was gnawing both into flesh and soul, slowly making her even more tired and numb. She shouldn't be alive anyway, she thought during endless days of half-conscious corridor wandering. Was there anything anchoring her, a reason to live here, anywhere? Cassian had his fight, his rebellion, the share of more or less dirty soldier deeds that made him a true Alliance child. She was avoiding him since Scarif, so similar and yet so different, orphaned for so many times, no longer anyone's child, no longer anyone's soldier.

  
Her thoughts, still centered around ideas on fixing her life were becoming slightly chaotic with every passing hour, finally even without food or sleep. When numbness had reached her limbs, she collapsed in a heap at an icy silent corner, barely noticing lack of feeling in legs. And yet, her mind was still working frantically, trying to find some sense, to find bits of logic in the universe. She failed miserably though. Her mind used to help her in surviving for a long time, and yet now she failed in logic. Not knowing who she was anymore, not knowing how to answer those harsh demands of reality to actually make a decision, she made a final one. Quiet runaways were her specialty, after all.

  
With jerky movements of ice-cold fingers she rolled up sleeve and pulled out a small blade out of a boot. Slowly she cut her arm from base of palm down to pit of elbow. The line seemed small and due to the temperature blood wasn't flowing fast enough, so with enormous effort she repeated the procedure again and again. Exhausted in both mind and body, she dropped the knife and watched as pool of crimson started to grow beneath. That's it, she thought. That's the way it should've ended back at the beach. After that everything was just an useless struggle, a waste of energy spent on chasing the non-existent sense of life. But she still could fix something now. At Scarif she had a chance to not be alone, to die in someone's warm arms. But really, she was sure that dying alone out in the cold was more likely a proper way.

  
And yet, on the verge of darkness, she felt warmth, a strangely familiar sense of warm arms surrounding her. Through the haze she saw brown eyes staring into her green ones, a sad smile to which she in vain tried to respond, and knife movements reflecting her own from just before - but on his arm.  


During the very last seconds, far into surprising warmth of darkness, far into imaginary melody that seemed familiar and yet wasn't, she managed to think - that he's not that different after all. That they were both supposed to die together days ago and that's how it's fixed.


	2. Cassian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: once again, this IS NOT a suicidal note. This is merely a follow up to my previous story, or I'd rather should say: a re-write of it, from Cassian's POV. I figured I owe the guy at least that much, so I'm sorry for not keeping this gruesome tale a one-shot.  
> Also, you may notice Chapter 2 is written in a bit different manner than Chapter 1. It's because now it took more of a conscious effort to write down stuff, while previously it was simply babbling of a lunatic, half-asleep, almost-in-a-nightmare person. It's not for me to judge which is better, or more convincing; though I do find it oddly fitting to have Jyn's POV being short, all just feelings and actions and Cassian's POV longer, mostly observations and conclusions.  
> Either way, sorry again for my English (not my native language) or poor writing skills (no writing fiction since early Spring of 2002 <\- I had to check, not that I remember). Hope there's something to enjoy here anyway.  
> As a side-note, I have a song stuck in my head, all thanks to RebelCaptain Appreciation Week. If you're curious what exactly Cassian is humming, Google around for "Te amo y más" / "I love you too much", if you don't know either version of the song already. To me it makes better lullaby than serenade, and I just can't get it out of my head, so stuffed it into otherwise non-romantic, non-poetic, terrifying story. Sorry, I think :P

Something _wasn't right_. The problem was, Cassian, the ever-observant spy, wasn't able to nail down the issue, which was worrisome on its own. Everything after the beach of Scarif was foggy; the rescue, the medbay, Death Star destruction, evacuation to Hoth... As if the stabbing cold of Echo Base had frozen some things behind an impossibly thick - almost unbreakable - frosted surface. The very same surface seemed to guard older feelings and memories as well. Painfully slowly though Cassian was getting to the point of discovering what was the thing that was bothering him for days now.  
  
To his surprise, that thing was – the lack of _purpose_. Funny, so many years living and breathing The Rebellion; killing, stealing, lying and betraying for The Rebellion; and it was only now, after possibly most successful mission in his entire career, that he found himself questioning this devotion. It didn't seem to be a matter of a simple dream like a retirement, behind the desk or anywhere else. No, it was worse than that - there were no dreams to hang on to at all. How this could happen?  
  
Far behind the frosty wall Cassian finally found the answer: Jyn Erso. She has started to change him, maybe since her rescue of a child on Jedha, maybe even earlier, these memories too foggy to tell for sure; but he was sure there was nothing that could stop or invert the transformation. The only truly clear memory Cassian had was of Jyn on Scarif sands: her serene face, the fire of upcoming destruction reflected in her eyes, her lithe body in his arms. These were supposed to be his final memories, final moments of his life. Instead, Cassian was still very much alive and completely, utterly confused on what to make out of the fact, what to do with this whole _living_ now.  
  
It did cross his mind to simply ask Jyn, check on how she might be handling the reality, but she was apparently focused on avoiding him at all costs; he didn't want to insist, as it could push her away completely. Especially that from what he could see by distant glimpses every now and then, she wasn't doing well at all. Her warrior stance had disappeared; she was all hunched shoulders and shuffling feet, looking enormously tired, broken even – especially with people whispering behind her back, talking and then suddenly stopping at the sight of her, or even spitting on her. No longer interested in gathering any intel, news or gossips, the intelligence officer behind Cassian's frosty wall still was painfully _aware_ that no number of Death Stars destroyed would force people to forget about all the deaths on Jedha, Scarif or – the biggest tragedy of them all – Alderaan. They were still blaming Jyn and her father, and yet she didn't try to fight back, to explain anything, or even to move away faster. She just slowly followed deeper, colder corridors, disappearing from the general view for hours first, for days later.  
  
Cassian couldn't help but to think Jyn needs her life fixed, the sooner the better. Maybe it could be even him to support her, to walk her through the obvious distress, but first, he had to fix himself. You can't talk about a purpose in life, about dreams and wishes, about future – while having _none_ of it, can you? Cassian just knew he wouldn't be able to convincingly lie about such things, not anymore – and not that he'd like to lie to her anyway.  
  
Having lots of food for thought, plenty of things to recover from behind the frosty wall, even more to hide deeper, Cassian developed a liking to strolls through the base corridors. They were mostly quiet and empty, just like mostly his heart was, and the cold getting into still weak bones and muscles was a welcomed distraction from walks too long, thoughts too deep. He did hope to stumble upon Jyn, her probably still being restless, but not before gathering himself together – and definitely not like _this_.  
  
It took Cassian a while to process the sight of her small and very still figure; slumped against a wall of ice, eyes closed, one arm covered in blood and much more blood pooling around. She was still breathing, although the breaths were shallow and rare. Cassian's first thought was to grab Jyn and run to medbay while crying out loud for help – maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be too late _yet_. He crouched and put his arms around her – and a sudden realization came over him as she opened her eyes. They were slightly foggy but as green as he remembered them, and they were staring straight into his brown ones, and now he had a full clarity of what she finally had found out about her life and what he was supposed to discover about his as well.  
  
The small knife that Jyn must've used was laying beside her, so Cassian picked up the stained blade from sticky crimson puddle and smiling – at least he hoped it was a _smile_ – cut down his own arm, trying to mirror Jyn's blood-obscured wounds. She was watching, wordlessly, her face a pale and emotion-void mask, unruly hair strands like cracks in mask's surface, but he knew already: she was understanding and accepting his choice - their choice.  
  
He sat down beside her, his back against the wall, his legs smearing the blood around, and pulled limp Jyn into his lap, her head on his chest and under his chin. Now he knew what to wait for, what purpose he had. Now his sole purpose was to give her what he was ready to give her at Scarif – warm arms, closeness of a fellow living being in final moments before the death, for as long as possible; and then to follow her, into the Force or whatever there may be. He wanted to just sit there in silence, and yet somehow not focus on her weakening breaths so started to hum something long forgotten, a Festian lullaby that twenty years earlier had felt into oblivion and now was resurfacing; strangely more appropriate in this situation than any possible prayer could be. Those sounds were supposed to lead both of them peacefully into the final sleep; but also to distract Cassian from learning about the exact moment of Jyn's death – ultimately he didn't want to know how far behind her he might be. They were supposed to die together, in each other's arms days ago, and avoiding death only complicated matters. Now it's all simple again, and that's how it's _fixed_.

 


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I shouldn't really touch this story anymore. Actually, I considered removing it from web completely, but due to Yet Another Bad Sleepless Night ™ this chapter got written on its own. It kind of softens the blow of two previous ones, adding a closure of some sort; besides, I got attached to this creepy story - it was my debut as a fanfiction writer, so it grew on me. Sorry again for possible grammar errors, English is not my native language. Thanks for reading anyway!  
> (And yes, I did read the novelization, otherwise my brain wouldn't stuck here the word "extraordinary" :P )

The bodies maybe would've never been found, or at least not within several weeks, if not for General Draven and his gut instincts. The Head of Intelligence obviously hated being uninformed, it was his _job_ to be always informed; he prided himself in knowing everything about everybody - and then some. That's precisely why he found disappearance of _that Erso girl_ , shortly followed by Captain Andor's vanishing act, heavily unnerving. Neither of them could fly off of the kriffing ice planet or otherwise leave this freezing place unnoticed, so they both should be still somewhere around the Echo Base, he reasoned. It's not like he was worried about them doing something stupid; even though still on a leave due to post-Scarif wounds, Andor was one of his best, utterly loyal operatives; admittedly also badly wounded Erso wasn't exactly _loved_ by the Rebels, so there was no way she could do anything even remotely harmful all by herself. And yet, something was very wrong, Draven could feel it - the only two survivors of Scarif disappearing completely from the view, pretty much simultaneously; that couldn't be _good_ in any way.

With enough of his people grounded at the base due to the weather conditions, Draven decided to order a quiet search through each and every piece of snow, ice, durasteel and other miscellaneous trash the base had consisted of. Nothing could've prepared him for the results of such an immense search, even if later he allowed admitting himself that at least in case of Andor things seemed _a bit off_ ever since Eadu failure; that maybe as Captain's superior he should see that coming, the signs of a soldier being burnt out. Still, he couldn't _babysit_ all of his people; it's not what army is about, is it?

Arriving in a hurry at the reported spot, Draven already had to wade through a crowd of terrified yet fascinated people, sea of hushed voices and amazed stares in a narrow corridor. Even for war-hardened General the view was like something straight from a nightmare: a sculpture-like figure of two people cuddled together, seated against a wall on what seemed like a huge patch of black ice; female form on male one's lap, bluish faces under frosted hair; both silhouettes covered with serious amounts of blood. Small knife lying just beside them was completing the tragic picture.

Such accidents weren't really uncommon, war simply _does that_ to some people, sometimes. But with these two being rather famous - _infamous?_ \- this particular spectacle may prove to be hard to hide from the Council, Draven thought. And exactly at this very moment, the crowd had shifted and parted to reveal Chancellor Mon Mothma's arrival.

She was also in haste; her usually calm features now turned into a kind of twisted parody - a proof she was losing her diplomatic composure quickly as she was absorbing the horrifying scene. Slowly and a bit unsteady, Mothma sank to her knees on the hard ice, very close to the bodies, drinking in the details: the knife with rust-coloured stains all over its blade and shaft; rolled-up sleeves on completely blood-covered left arms of both people; smudged blood stain in shape of slim palm on front of Cassian's parka; some single hair strands - stiff with blood and frost - carefully tucked behind Jyn's ear; finally, the surprising look of peace and lack of pain on their faces. Still kneeling, not averting her eyes, with voice full of unshed tears but as strong as always, Mon Mothma said, 'It is us who did this to them, General. It is us, The Alliance, our _mighty_ Rebellion - and don't you ever dare to think otherwise.'

Draven didn't dare.

Years later, after Battle of Jakku, right after signing down the peace treaty with what was left of the Empire, Mon Mothma allowed herself some moments of reflection. So many people had died, so many unfortunate souls didn't make it until the end of the war, so many gave their lives for a cause - _without a cause_. The memory of Scarif heroes was especially daunting. They could've become - they already were - _extraordinary_ , with or without each other. They left so soon, too soon, not finding a future for them to live in. Now, with the promise of peace spreading all over the galaxy, may no one ever suffer such end, may no such thing ever happen to anyone, may next generations have a future to live in - and that's finally _the way to fix it_.


End file.
